“An unmoored island. Floating in the air. Flying.”

Annaïg frowned, set her glass down and wagged a finger at him. “That’s not funny, Glim. You’re teasing me.”

“No, I wasn’t going to tell you. But the wine …”

She sat up straighter in her chair. “You’re serious. Coming this way?”

“’Swat he said.”

“Huh,” she replied, taking up the wine again and sinking back into her chair. “I’ll have to think about that. A flying city. Sounds like something left over from the Merithic era. Or before.” She felt her ample mouth pull in a huge smile. “Exciting. I’d better go see Hecua tomorrow.”

And so they finished that bottle, and opened another—an expensive one—and outside the rains came, as they always did, a moving curtain, glittering in the lamplight, clean and wet, washing away, for the moment, Lilmoth’s scent of mildew and decay.

TWO

A boy was once born with a knife instead of a right hand, or so Colin had heard. Rape and attempted murder planted him in his mother, but she had lived and turned all of her thoughts toward vengeance. She laughed when he carved his way out of her and went gleefully into the world to slaughter all who had wronged her and many who had not. And when his victims were drowning in their own blood, they might ask, “Who are you?” and he would answer simply, “Dalk,” which in the northern tongue is an old word for knife.

According to the legend, it happened in Skyrim, but assassins liked the story, and it wasn’t that uncommon for a brash young up-and-coming killer to take that alias and daydream of making that cryptic reply.

The knife in Colin’s hand didn’t feel remotely a part of him. The handle was slick and clammy, and it made his arm feel huge and obvious, hanging by his side just under the edge of his cloak.

Why hadn’t the man noticed him? He was just standing there, leaning against the banister of the bridge, staring off toward the lighthouse. He came here each Loredas, after visiting his horse at the stables. Often he met someone here; there was a brief conversation, and they would part. He never spoke to the same person twice.

Colin continued toward him. There was traffic on the bridge—mostly folks from Weye going home for the night with their wagons and the things they hadn’t sold at market, lovers trying to find a nice place to be secret.

But it was thinning out. They were almost alone.

“There you are,” the man said.

His face was hard to see, as it was cast in shadow by a watch-light a little farther up. Colin knew it well, though. It was long and bony. His hair was black with a little gray, his eyes startling blue.

“Here I am,” Colin replied, his mouth feeling dry.

“Come on over.”

A few steps and Colin was standing next to him. A group of students from the College of Whispers were loudly approaching.

“I like this place,” the man said. “I like to hear the bells of the ships and see the light. It reminds me of the sea. Do you know the sea?”

Shut up! Colin thought. Please don’t talk to me.

The students were dithering, pointing at something in the hills northwest.

“I’m from Anvil,” Colin said, unable to think of anything but the truth.

“Ah, nice town, Anvil. What’s that place, the one with the dark beer?”

“The Undertow.”

The man smiled. “Right. I like that place.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “What times, eh? I used to have a beautiful villa on the headland off Topal Bay. I had a little boat, two sails, just for plying near the coast. Now …” He raised his hands and let them drop. “But you didn’t come here for any of that, did you?”

The students were finally moving off, talking busily in what sounded like a made-up language.

“I guess not,” Colin agreed. His arm felt larger than ever, the knife like a stone in his hand.

“No. Well, it’s simple today. You can tell them there’s nothing new. And if anyone asks, tell them that no food, no wine, no lover’s kiss is as beautiful as a long, deep, breath.”

“What?”

“Astorie, book three. Chapter—What are you holding there?”

Stupidly, Colin looked down at the knife, which had slipped from the folds of his cloak and gleamed in the lamplight.

Their eyes met.

“No!” the man shouted.

So Colin stabbed him—or tried. The man’s palms came up and the knife cut into them. Colin reached with his left hand to try to slap them aside and thrust again, this time slicing deep into the forearm.

“Just stop it!” the man gasped. “Wait a minute, talk—”

The knife slipped past the thrashing limbs and sank into his solar plexus. His mouth still working, the fellow staggered back, staring at his hand and arm.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Colin took a step toward the man, who slumped against the banister.

“Don’t,” he wheezed.

“I have to,” Colin whispered. He stooped down. The man’s arms came up, too weak now to stop Colin from cutting his throat.

The corpse slipped to a sitting position. Colin slid down next to him and watched the students, distant now, entirely unaware of what had just happened.

Unlike the two men coming from the city, who were walking purposefully toward him. Colin put his arms around the dead man’s shoulders, as if the fellow had passed out from drinking and he was keeping him warm.

But there wasn’t any need for that. One of the pair was a tall bald man with angular features, the other an almost snoutless Khajiit. Arcus and Khasha.

“Into the river with him now,” Arcus said.

“Just catching my breath, sir.”

“Yes, I saw. Quite a fracas, when all we asked you to do was slit his throat.”

“He … he fought.”

“You were careless.”

“First time, Arcus,” Khasha said, smoothing his whiskers and twitching his tail impatiently. “How slick were you? Let’s get him in the river and be gone.”

“Fine. Lift, Inspector.”

When Colin didn’t move, Arcus snapped his fingers.

“Sir? You meant me?”

“I meant you. Sloppily done, but you did do it. You’re one of us now.”

Colin took the dead man’s legs, and together they heaved him over. He hit the water and lay there, floating, staring up at Colin.

Inspector. He’d been waiting three years to be called that.

Now it sounded like just another word.

“Put on this robe,” Khasha said. “Hide the blood until we get you cleaned up.”

“Right,” Colin said dully.

He got his documents the next day, from Intendant Marall, a round-faced man with an odd ruff of beard beneath his chin.

“You’ll lodge in the Telhall,” Marall told him. “I believe they already have a case for you.” He put down the pen and looked hard at Colin. “Are you well, son? You look haggard.”

“Couldn’t sleep, sir.”

The intendant nodded.

“Who was he, sir?” Colin blurted out. “What did he do?”

“You don’t want to know that, son,” Marall said. “I advise you not to try and find out.”

‘“But sir—”

“What does it matter?” Marall said. “If I told you he was responsible for the kidnapping and murder of sixteen toddlers, would that make you happy?”

“No, sir.”

“What if I told you his crime was to make a treasonous joke about her majesty’s thighs?”

Colin blinked. “I can’t imagine—”

“You’re not supposed to imagine, son. Yours is not the power of life and death. That lies far above you. It comes, in essence, from the authority of the Emperor. There is always a reason, and it is always a good one, and it is not your business, do you understand? You do not imagine, you do not think. You do what you’re told.”

“But I’ve been trained to think, sir. This office trained me to think.”

“Yes, and you do it very well. All of your instructors agree on that. You’re a very bright young man, or the Penitus Oculatus would not have approached you in the first place, and you have done very well here. But any thinking you do, you see, is in service to your job. If you’re asked to find a spy in the Emperor’s guard, you must use every bit of logic at your disposal. If you’re asked to quietly discover which of Count Caro’s daughters has been poisoning his guests, again, use your forensic training. But if you’re given a clear order to steal, injure, poison, stab, or generally do murder, your brain is only to help you with the method and the execution. You are an instrument, a utensil of the Empire.”